


superbia.

by harleyshaze (cemetery_driven)



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: D/s, F/M, Seven Deadly Sins, jokerxharleyweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:24:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemetery_driven/pseuds/harleyshaze
Summary: Harley's so proud to have his marks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for jokerxharley week on tumblr. some amazing stuff is coming from this already. 
> 
> day one: pride.

The leather is thick, thick and white, and there's the little jingle of metal-on-metal as she pulls it tight around her neck, the heavy gold letters bringing a familiar weight. It's comforting, the weight of the leather and gold, and sometimes she even feels naked without it.

J had given her the collar so long ago now, it seemed, though maybe it wasn't. Harley will admit, she's never been one to mark off a calendar. Not since J anyway, since she's been curled around his arm in shades of gold and red, pink and black and blue. She likes it, the freedom, the way she can sleep all day if she so desires and when they go joyriding on a Monday morning as the mamas and papas of Gotham busy themselves making breakfasts.

She wears his collar almost all the time now. He tells her not to sleep with it on, because the heavy gold letters might press too hard into her throat as she sleeps and leave marks or pinch her skin.

Harley likes the way the boys look at her, their eyes pausing on the white and gold before they get a chance to gawk at her chest. She likes how the girls get this little glimmer in their eyes, maybe jealousy, maybe admiration. She wears the collar, tight and solid around her throat, with as much pride as she does every tattoo he's carved into her skin.

They all stare at those too, the rotten on her cheek, the scrawling daddy's lil monster on her chest. She remembers the pain of his steady hand pressing the buzzing needles into her skin, the clinical stench of the room because even J, in all his sadism, was so pedantic about keeping the tattoos healthy. Keeping her healthy. 

She loves the grind of the tattoo gun against her skin, though the heart near her eye was teetering on the too-much (but maybe that's because it was the second one he did). It's a sting, a burn, a throb all at once. Sometimes, when the mood strikes her, she shuffles down to the tiny tiled room in J's basement in nothing but one of his black silk shirts. She's seen him do it enough now she knows exactly what order to do it all in, when to wipe down her skin, how hard to press down. She doodles on her thighs in permanent ink, lip between her teeth, twitching her toes in time with a song that isn't playing.

Maybe she likes the physical, tangible reminders of being owned. In fact, she's almost certain she craves them now just as much as she craves J's hands or mouth. It's like the lines of ink and the heavy leather and gold tell every one of them she is off-limits, untouchable and better than them all combined. 

Maybe she's just proud she won that place beside him, that out of them all, she's the one wearing his marks of ownership, of trust. Maybe, maybe some kinda love.


End file.
